“Well, let the matter rest for the present,” said Hilton. “Only let us thank our stars that we have escaped.”
“To be sure!” said Chumbley, with a sigh of relief. “Poor woman, I should not like her to be hurt, she behaved so well; and—Hurrah! there’s Harley! Row, you ruffians—row! There—to that landing-stage!”
Then, as the men, who were in a great state of dread as to whether they should be allowed to depart, tremblingly placed the boat alongside the bamboo landing-stage, Hilton sprang out, Chumbley following, after placing some silver coin in the men’s hands, and sending them rejoicing away.
“What’s that?” cried Chumbley, as he caught part of a sentence and the Resident’s hand at the same moment. “Miss Perowne missing?”
“Yes; carried off, I suppose now,” said the Resident, between his teeth. “The same brain must have contrived your absence, though for what I don’t know, unless it was for ransom.”
Hilton and Chumbley exchanged glances. “Only one brain here could have plotted this,” cried the Resident, as he mastered the fact of his friends having been made prisoners in some out-of-the-way place; “and the brain was that of the doubly-dyed, treacherous scoundrel who has all along professed to be our friend. I always suspected it: Helen Perowne is a prisoner in Rajah Murad’s hands.”